Last Stop, Wylder

By Barbara Bettis

Gunman Morgan Dodd is headed to a new life in California, where no one knows his name. Or his reputation. Just one last job to raise money for his fresh start—gunhand for a railroad agent in Wyoming. Easy enough. Until he meets the woman who could change everything.

After ending her engagement, Emily Martin longs for independence. She sets out for Wylder, Wyoming, to help her brother with his newspaper. But when she arrives, she finds he’s off investigating a story. Well, then. She’ll simply publish the paper herself until he returns. Emily’s prepared to face challenges, but not the dangerous stranger who ambushes her heart. The same man hired to destroy her livelihood.

When a common enemy threatens, Morgan and Emily must find a way to defeat danger and save their budding love. But a gunman’s word is his bond, and a lady’s trust can shatter.

• Language: Unknown
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Oct 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9781509243495

Barbara Bettis

Award-winning author Barbara Bettis can't recall a time she didn't love adventures of daring heroes and plucky heroines. She lives in Missouri, where by day she's a mild-mannered English teacher at a local college, and by night she's an intrepid plotter of her own tales featuring heroines to die for--and heroes to live for.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Colorado Territory

July, 1878

From the crest of a bluff east of Denver, Morgan Dodd considered his future.

A new start where no one knew his name. A new life.

West to California? Beyond the snow-flecked mountains to his left, barely visible in the early evening haze. A land of opportunity with booming cities and wide valleys to ranch.

He shifted in the saddle, his gaze drifting northwest. Oregon, maybe. Word of rich, fertile land sounded mighty appealing. He could settle down there, farm a little. If he remembered how to farm. God knew, it’d been long enough.

First, though, north to Cheyenne. Where one last job awaited—and the money for that new start, wherever it lay.

Morgan glanced again at the blue-shrouded foothills to his left. The unknown. Deep in his chest, a hitch of anticipation had him straightening. If he rode hard, he could reach Denver by dark. Then at first light, off to start over. Perhaps…

Something moved. His attention focused on the edge of a clearing below. In the wan light, three antelope ventured from a clot of trees to sample the tall, lush grass of mid July, tender again after last night’s rain.

His brief reflections forgotten, Morgan brought up his Winchester and sighted. For a moment he hesitated. The three animals were beautiful. Young, their lives ahead of them. He hated for a gun to change one forever. Nostalgia hit him, as unexpected as it was unwelcome. He swallowed it.

He had a duty, and he’d best get it done. One shot brought down the biggest of the trio, sending the other two leaping for cover.

A breeze carried the distant murmur of cattle settling in for the night on rich grazing ground to the east. Morgan dismounted and strode to collect his kill. Tomorrow his fellows on the drive would dine on something other than beans and rabbit.

Then they’d head out for the rail head in Cheyenne.

Cheyenne.

His path had always been set. A new job. Gunhand for a Union Pacific agent.

He threw one last glance toward the mountains.

Maybe next year.

****

Union Pacific Station

Omaha, Neb.

July, 1878

Emily Martin waved from the lowered window of the train car outside the Omaha Depot for the Union Pacific Railroad.

Goodbye, Mama, Papa, she mouthed over the noise of the idling engine. A puff of sooty smoke curled in, and she coughed then struggled to raise the glass.

Her action smothered her parents’ words, but she knew them by rote. Be careful. Write often. I wish you would reconsider. I’ll transfer you money.

Her mother dabbed a linen handkerchief at the corners of her eyes. Her father slid his arm around his wife’s shoulders. Bless their protective hearts, they’d come all the way to Omaha with her to see her off on her journey.

Only the fact that she was able to secure a sleeping car had made them agree not to accompany her to Wyoming. That and the fact one of her father’s fellow attorneys, Mr. Hamilton, and his wife were on the same train enroute to San Francisco to visit their son. The Hamiltons had promised to look out for Emily.

But for all intents, she was alone.

She pressed a hand against her chest—as if that could stop her heart jumping.

On her own for the first time in all her twenty-two years.

Even at Stephens College she’d been surrounded by other girls like herself. But now she headed into the unknown, to Wylder, Wyoming, for a long visit with her brother.

At the engine’s shrill whistle, her mother jumped and pressed closer to her father. The train gave an impatient lurch, like a dog straining at the leash. Her heart echoed the movement. As the car jerked into motion, she waved one last time. Then she leaned back.

And sighed.

Chapter 2

Emily stood outside the station in Cheyenne, waiting to board the smaller train that would take her the final fifteen miles east to Wylder. A single passenger carriage brought up the end of four freight cars on the short spur line.

The breeze here was cooler than the hot, dry gusts at her last stop in Nebraska. Her dark blue traveling suit felt rather comfortable for once.

She moved closer to the train. Wouldn’t do to miss the conductor’s call. Noise swirled around like the notes of a discordant band, and she might miss the announcement. Quite a din, with cattle complaining and stomping, teams of horses blowing and snorting, harness and reins jangling, wagons creaking and wheels squeaking, laughter and cursing. Not once did a woman’s voice ride the shoulder of a shout.

Farther up the track, a man in a red shirt led a horse as it clopped up a wooden ramp into one of the stock units. Several head of cattle had already been locked into a different car. Looked like more livestock than people traveled to Wylder.

The breeze carried another sharp smell of cattle…she sneezed…and dust. Occasionally an odor of rancid hot grease puffed by from a small restaurant just down from the depot. She paced a few steps up then back. Not long now before she reached David and the next chapter of her life.

Ahead, the man reappeared and leaped to the ground from the stock car, his movements smooth, graceful. He swooped up a saddle and swung it onto his left shoulder.

All in one movement. How did he do that? She couldn’t look away. Tall, lean, dark-haired, anchoring the saddle with one hand, dangling a grayish-brown hat in the other, he ambled toward her.

His strides were fluid but sure, mesmerizing. She caught her breath. Like a prowl. Like…yes, he moved like the puma she saw at the Chicago Zoo last year. Confident yet wary, relaxed but watchful, easy but relentless.

Her stomach tilted at his lanky grace, the way his broad shoulders carried the saddle yet managed to hold straight, even a little jaunty—challenging. A shiver shot up her spine and she looked away. Goodness. I hope he didn’t notice me staring.

She’d never seen someone move like that. Perhaps the contained, almost challenging, gait was typical of Western men. But none of the scores of other men she’d glimpsed during the journey had that kind of presence.

His red shirt, calico she saw now, looked clean but wrinkled, as if it had been wadded in the bottom of a bag.

Excuse me, miss. The conductor stood in the doorway of the passenger car. You can board now. He jumped down the steps to hand her up, as politely as if they were still in the City.

Thank you. Emily smiled, grasped his fingers, and lifted the hem of her skirt. Inside, she considered the empty seats, then chose one three rows down the aisle next to the window so she would have a good view of the scenery.

From behind her rose the murmurs of two men, then came a thud. She started and glanced over her shoulder. The man in red had dropped his saddle to the floor and was seating himself in the back row on the opposite side of the aisle.

He looked up and caught her eye. His head drooped in a slight nod, and he placed his hat on the seat adjoining his. Her chin ducked in a minute response before she whipped her gaze to the front. And pressed a hand against her suddenly thudding heart. She inhaled deeply and eased out a long, silent sigh. No need to be nervous. This was friendly behavior and absolutely normal for the informal Westerners. At least that’s what David claimed in his letters.

A few other passengers boarded, and the chatter of voices grew louder. All male. These past days of travel she’d grown used to being one of few, if not the lone, female around. She saw only their backs as they trooped by and found seats farther to the front. Two were dressed in suits, but three were outfitted like the man in red, with dark trousers and cotton shirts. Except those three hadn’t bothered to bathe or change their clothing lately.

Emily had grown up around men. Politicians, businessmen, and other professionals frequently visited at her family’s home. An influential attorney, her father moved in many circles. And her personal, political, and writing interests led her to male-dominated meetings. So she was used to being around members of the opposite sex of all ages.

She’d never been around so many unfamiliar men alone, however. Men whose ways of life were unlike any she’d experienced.

Making a concentrated effort to regulate her breathing, she stared out the window. Cheyenne bustled with activity—men in suits, and men in trousers and shirts and vests, men in waist overalls. Several of those wore the new-style hat David had described. It had a wider brim and a taller, straight-sided crown. What had he called it—Boss of the West? He’d said many of the cowboys wore such headgear. But where were all the women? Surely a lot lived in a town this size.

That’s right. Today’s Sunday. Perhaps they were at church, or home preparing lunch. But Emily found it odd that so many businesses remained open on Sunday out here.

Behind her, a slight commotion signaled another arrival. The newcomer strode down the aisle, greeting the others as he approached. They rose to shake his hand.

Foster, said one of the men. Didn’t know you were back from the East. How was business?

Damned fine, answered a loud, commanding voice. When the other man cleared his throat and glanced toward Emily, the speaker turned. In the instant before he spoke again, his gaze raked her. She lifted her chin and smoothed her features. It was an automatic reaction she’d learned over the past few years. The politic response to an encroaching man’s expression.

The speaker strode the few steps to her. He doffed his hat, a black bowler. Beg pardon, ma’am. Didn’t realize a lady was present. He held out his hand. Automatically she placed her gloved fingertips on his, and he bowed. Smooth as any greeting she’d receive at a social gathering at home. She dipped her head in his direction and reclaimed her hand.

Out this way, we don’t have the luxury of third party introductions. His tone was smooth, friendly.

Too friendly. A chill skittered down her back.

So allow me, he continued. I’m Eli Foster, Wylder’s representative of our host, here, the Union Pacific. I assume you’re traveling to Wylder. Only place to be going on this line. His chuckle sounded pro forma—smooth, deprecating, condescending.

He modeled the gracious, avuncular man-of-substance greeting reserved for ladies. But his eyes still sized her up. Her chin rose again while her spine stiffened.

Wylder’s a fine, growing place. Allow me to welcome you, he said. Are you visiting relatives there, Miss…?

Thank you for the kind greeting, Mr. Foster, she said in her best meeting-strangers-during-a-reception tone. I look forward to seeing the town.

Before he could further press for her name, a shrill whistle pierced the air, and the train lurched forward, causing him to stumble backward. He straightened and repositioned his hat.

I’d best get to my seat and find my ticket before our conductor scolds me. Hope to see you in Wylder, ma’am. Foster turned and made his way back to the other men, steadying his gait by clutching the backs of seats along the aisle.

Well. Emily had received her first welcome to her new home. She supposed he appeared to be a pleasant, mannerly gentleman. In his late thirties, perhaps, he was handsome enough. Yet something about the Union Pacific representative made her uncomfortable, in addition to the way he’d looked her over. His smooth words and too-confident behavior sent prickles across her shoulders. Rather like some politicians she’d met.

No, no! No more politics. She’d promised herself that when she left Kansas City. David wanted help with the paper he’d taken over, and a growing Western town was just what she needed. New and different surroundings. Peace and quiet and the homey news of a small place. Friends and neighbors, not critical politicians and competitive socialites.

Acceptance, not stilted courtesy and hastily hidden titters at an engagement broken simply because she authored a newspaper column now and then.

She settled back and pulled a book from her bag, Mark Twain’s The Gilded Age. She had enjoyed Twain’s short story about the jumping frog and looked forward to his novel.

She’d barely begun the story when a shadow fell across her vision.

Excuse me, ma’am. You dropped this.

The warm, slightly rough voice sent an entirely different sort of shiver down her spine.

She looked up. Into gray eyes. Smoke eyes. No one has smoke eyes, silly. The self-scolding sent her gaze in a quick sweep of his face. Her breath clogged somewhere along her throat when she reached his mouth. Generous, wide, but not thick. One side of that wide, generous mouth was quirked up in a questioning way.

Oh. He’d said something she’d missed.

He lifted his hand, and her gaze flashed to a small black diary with a tiny pencil attached by a blue ribbon. Oh my. The record of her thoughts during the journey. It must have fallen out when she retrieved her book.

She took it from his fingers—long, callused, tanned brown. On the side of his thumb a scar meandered, disappearing beneath his red shirt cuff like a thin white thread.

Thank you. Years of training paid off—her voice remained steady. But her oddly dry mouth gave the words a touch of breathiness. Definitely unlike her.

Her gaze flicked over his face again, committing it to memory. A handy talent for a writer, one she’d had from childhood.

You’re welcome.

Chill bumps rose on her skin at the dark, rich tone of his voice. Morning chocolate flowing over shards of sugar. Oh good heavens, she was behaving like a silly ninny who’d never seen a man before.

The corner of his mouth raised in a polite smile, and he disappeared from her side. She followed the tap of his boots, the rustle of his sitting.

She absently slipped the notebook into her reticule bag and opened Mr. Twain. For the next several minutes, she stared at the book, seeing not the printed words, but the image of the cowboy, prowling across the page. Lean cheeks, square chin, dark brown hair curling along his neck, gray eyes piercing her from beneath long, thick black lashes, and eyebrows with a natural arch most women only dreamed of having.

His nose—long, narrow but strong. How could a nose be narrow and strong? She nearly turned for another look but stopped in time. Great Aunt Maude! What am I doing? Determined to banish the stranger from her mind, she watched the passing countryside as they traveled east and slightly south.

Occasional fields of grass dotted with grazing cattle interspersed with patches of strange rock formations. If she leaned close enough to the window, she caught glimpses of hills toward the side. A ridge of dark against the blue horizon gradually became the forms of…mountains.

She inhaled in wonder and took in dirt particles gusted from the wind outside combined with the movement of the train. Another firm puff of breeze brought smoke from the engine. The soot set off a round of coughing. While she dug in her reticule for her handkerchief, a dark form loomed at the side of her vision. The movement came so quickly, she instinctively ducked.

Instead of making impact, the figure—red, she saw—reached over her head to raise the window. A two-or-so inch crack remained open for air to circulate. The splash of red pulled back to resolve again into the cowboy from the back row.

Now. Air enough for relief but without the dangers, he said, his low voice rippling along her nerves. Breathless, Emily gazed into his eyes through the blur of smoke-triggered tears. After another cough, she managed, Thank you.

That half smile tugged his mouth again as he nodded. Ma’am.

She blinked away the moisture and returned a tiny smile while she took in retreating wide shoulders, narrow hips, long legs. Her smile grew when she noticed the hat-edge indentation in his dark hair. A funny sliver of warmth lodged in her chest at the ordinary sign. Turning quickly, she stared out the window again.

There is nothing fascinating about that stranger.

She lifted the book and pretended to read.

The remainder of the journey proved unremarkable. Words of the businessmen at the front of the car, sounds of the three cowboys immersed in a game of cards, all nothing but murmurs beneath the clack of wheels against tracks. The sounds combined into a rhythm that lulled Emily into a semi-sleep until a squalling whistle and a sharp jerk threw her head against the window. A loud, sucking whoosh was followed by a clatter of a closing door.

Wylder, the conductor yelled, striding along the aisle. Last stop. He paused in front of her. We’re here, ma’am. I’ll get one of the boys from the livery to haul your trunks. You just tell him where you’re bound for.

Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.

He rushed ahead to prepare for the passengers to unload.

She remained seated, preferring to wait for the others to pass. However, courtesy prevailed, and the men paused for her to go first. Smiling, she rose, collected her bag, and made her way to the back of the car. The man in red still sat, his attention on something outside the window.

The conductor handed her down the last huge step to ground packed by years of footsteps. If you’ll stand over there, ma’am, I’ll see to your baggage.

Over there was a stretch of bare ground several feet from the depot. A streak of wind whipped around the building, tugging her hat and swirling dust into her eyes and nose. She turned away from the gust toward the train as she fumbled for her handkerchief. She coughed, then sneezed before she could pull it from her reticule.

She’d dabbed the moisture from her eyes